Teh Most Dangerous Game
by Pasta In My Socks
Summary: Alfred Jones, and his partner Arthur Kirkland are on a trip to go hunting in Peru when they pass by the mysterious Ship Trap Island. What troubles await Jones as he finds himself trapped with the creepy General Braginski. A parody of the short story "The Most Dangerous Game" By:Richard Connell. T for language, not too intense.


**I read this in school and as soon as I got to Zaroff I knew I had to make this! This has a lot of references to stuff I like so if you're confused about anything just ask. Also just 'cause, I bolded some of the vocab words I got with this story to keep it real. Annnd I took some things straight from the text just as a fore warning, I'm not claiming all of the wording is mine. Any Reviews, Fave's and all that jazz would be (cue John Stewart voice) HAWSOME! :) **

"Over there, somewhere in the distance towards the right, is an island." Kirkland motioned, "It's rather a mystery."

"For reals yo? What island is it?" Jones asked enthusiastically.

"According to the old charts, it goes by the name 'Ship-Trap Island' suggestive name it'nit? These sailors' have quite the fear of it, actually. Some supersti-"

"Can't see it bro." Jones interjected, peering out in the distance.

"Don't cut me off you git!" Kirkland snapped. "But yes, even though you need those frames for reading, your hunting vision is impeccable! You can shoot down a grisly from four hundred miles away; however, no one could see four miles in this moonless Caribbean night."

"Not even four yards." Jones admitted, "Crap! It's so frikken dark out here!" He complained loudly.

"Oh shut up Jones," Kirkland chuckled. "There will be plenty of sun in Rio! I hope the jaguar guns have come from Williams. We'll have some jolly good fun in the Amazon! Great sport, hunting."

"Ha! The best in the world!" Jones exclaimed.

"For the hunter that is, not the jaguar." Kirkland amended.

"Fo you tripen'! You're a big game hunter, not a philosoraptor!" Jones scoffed, "Who gives a damn what the jaguar feels?"

"Perhaps the jaguar, you twit?" reasoned Kirkland.

Jones snorted, "They have no understanding!"

"Even so, Jones, I rather think they understand one thing-fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death."

"Bull crap!" Jones laughed, "This weather is making you coo-coo in da head! Think about it. The world is made up of two classes-the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet Arthur?"

"I can't tell it's so thick (like your head!). I do hope so."

"Why?"

"I dare say this place has a reputation- a bad one at that."

"Killer LOL Cats?" Jones suggested.

"Wha- no, no LOL Cats, git."

"Cannibals?" Jones asked.

"No, even cannibals wouldn't live in such a godforsaken place. But it's gotten into sailor lore, y'know. Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today?" Kirkland replied.

"Now that you mention it they were a bit off. Even Captain Ox-"

"Yes, even that tough-minded old Swede, who'd go up to Chuck Norris himself and tell him to gtfo. Those Ocean blue eyes held a look I never saw there before. All I could get out of him was `This place has an evil name among seafaring men, sir.' Then he said to me, very gravely, `Don't you feel anything?'-as if the air about us was actually filled with Koffing. Now, you mustn't laugh when I tell you this-I did feel something like a sudden chill."

"There was no breeze, the sea was oh so calm. We were approaching the island then. What I felt was a-a mental chill; a sort of sudden dread."

"Pure imagination." Jones replied. " One sailor can taint a whole crew with his fears."

"Maybe. But sometimes I think sailors have an extra sense that tells them when they are in danger. Sometimes I think evil is a **tangible** thing-with wave lengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil. Anyhow, I'm glad we're getting out of this zone." Kirkland yawned slightly. "Well I'm going to camp now."

"Goodnight biscuit!" Jones called out to the other man.

"DON'T CALL ME THAT YOU WANKER!" Arthur shouted. "Goodnight." Kirkland went down to the cabins.

"Love ya too, dude." The other man laughed.

oFTbrakeoFT

Jones went up on the afterdeck to snack on a hamburger before going to sleep too. While looking into the sea and the drowsy atmosphere he pondered to himself "God damn! It's so dark out here I could go to sleep without even having to close my eyes!"

An abrupt sound startled him. He heard it off to the right, his ears being so trained, that it could not be mistaken. Again he heard the sound, and then again after that, somewhere off in the darkness of the night, someone had fired a gun three times.

Jones sprang up and moved quickly to the rail, mystified, and intrigued. He strained his eyes in the direction from which the reports had come, but it was futile in the deep darkness. He leaped upon the rail and balanced himself there, to get greater elevation; his burger, in his swift movement, was knocked from his mouth. He lunged for it; a short, cry of dread was let out as he realized he had reached too far and had lost his balance. The cry was pinched off short as the blood-warm waters of the Caribbean Sea dosed over his head.

He struggled to the surface, trying to call out, but his words were cut off by the waves being slapped at him from the yacht he had just fallen out of, the salt water being forced into his mouth. He tried to swim desperately towards the yacht but stopped before he reached fifty feet. A certain coolheadedness had come to him; it was not the first time he had been in a tight place. There was a chance that someone aboard the yacht could hear his cries, but that chance was slender and grew more slender as the yacht raced on. He wrestled himself out of his clothes and shouted with all his power. The lights of the yacht became faint and more distant; then they were blotted out entirely by the night.

Jones quickly remembered the shots. They had come from the right, as it being the best option; he started swimming in that direction, with slow deliberate strokes, trying to conserve his energy. For a seemingly endless time (like waiting for a video to buffer with crappy internet, yeah, that long!) he fought against the sea. He began to count his strokes; he could do possibly a hundred more and then—

Jones heard a sound. Out of the darkness it came, the high screaming sound of in animal in intense pain and extreme terror.

He did not recognize the animal, nor did he try to, with the enthusiasm of Key-Board Cat, he swam towards the sound. He heard it again; then it was cut short by another noise, crisp, staccato.

"Pistol shot," muttered Jones, swimming on.

Ten minutes of swimming brought Jones to the most welcoming sound after this incident- the sound of rocks hitting on the shore. He was almost on them before he heard it, on a less calm night he would have crashed on them, shattering him. With his remaining strength he brought himself out of the water. Jagged crags appeared to jut up into the opaqueness; he forced himself upward, hand over hand. Gasping, his hands raw, he reached a flat place at the top. Dense jungle came down to the very edge of the cliffs. What perils that tangle of trees and underbrush might hold for him did not concern Jones just then. All he knew was that he was safe from his enemy, the sea, and that utter weariness was on him. He flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life.

He woke up the next morning to find he had slept till the afternoon- judging by the position of the sun. He found himself to be very hungry, the coarse of last night enough to tire anyone. He looked around in an almost cheerful manner.

"Where there are pistol shots, there are men. Where there are men, there is food," he thought. But what kind of men, he wondered, in such an effed up place?

Seeing no path about him, Jones saw the most sensible option to follow the shore. Not far from where he landed, he stopped.

Some wounded thing-by the evidence, a large animal-had thrashed about in the underbrush; the jungle weeds were crushed down and the moss was lacerated; one patch of weeds was stained crimson, it looked like the after match of a hard core German sparkle party gone too far. A small, glittering object not far away caught Jones' eye and he picked it up. It was an empty cartridge.

"A twenty-two," he remarked. "That's odd. It must have been a fairly large animal too. The hunter had his nerve with him to tackle it with a light gun. It's clear that the brute put up a fight. I guess the first three shots I heard was when the hunter flushed his quarry and wounded it. The last shot was when he trailed it here and finished it. LOL K.O. Moesockra!"

He examined the ground closely and found what he was looking for- the print of hunting boots. They pointed along the cliff in the direction he had been going. Eagerly he hurried along, every now and again slipping on a log or loose stone, but making headway; night was beginning to settle down on the island.

It was getting to become an eerie darkness before he saw the lights. When he turned the corner of the coast, his first thought was that he had stumbled upon a village, for there was a ton of lights. But as he trudge along he saw to his great astonishment that all the lights were in one enormous building-a lofty structure with pointed towers shooting upward into the dark sky like nyan cat. His eyes made out the shadowy outlines of a palatial chateau; it was set on a high bluff, and on three sides of it cliffs dived down to where the sea met in the shadows.

"LSD." Thought Jones, but it was not LSD, he found out when he opened the tall spiked gates. The stone steps were real enough; the massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker was real enough, and there were no flying mint-colored bunny things, so it must have been real; yet above it all hung an air of unreality.

He grabbed hold of the gargoyle knocker and banged the hell outa that bitch. He waited a few moments and repeated his actions. Suddenly the door opened as if on a spring, with this the first thing Jones was greeted with was a blinding amount of light compared to the darkness that was currently surrounding him. When his vision was adjusted, he saw before him a solidly made and scary rapefacey looking blond man. In his hand the man held a long-barreled revolver, and he was pointing it straight at Jones' heart.

The man glared at Jones with his cold green eyes.

"Don't be alarmed," said Jones, with a smile that he hoped was disarming, and showed off his heroness. "I'm no robber. I fell off a yacht. My name is Alfred Jones of New York City."

The evil look in the eyes did not change. The revolver remained pointing at him as rigidly as if the man were a statue. He gave no sign that he understood Jones' words, or that he had even heard them. He was dressed in uniform-a black uniform trimmed with gray astrakhan.

"I'm Alfred Jones of New York," Jones began again. "I fell off a yacht. I am hungry."

The man's only answer was to raise with his thumb the hammer of his revolver. The mans free hand then went to one of a military salute, he then clicked his heals together and stood erectly. Another man was coming down the marble staircase, he was a bit of a chunker, but he carried himself proudly.

In a refined voice marked by a slight accent that gave it added precision and deliberateness, he said, "It is a very great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Alfred Jones, the celebrated hunter, to my home."

Automatically Jones shook the man's hand.

"I've read your book about hunting snow leopards in Tibet, da," explained the man. "I am General Braginski."

Jones' first impression was that the General was very handsome, he was this close to making a 'dat ass' face; his second was that there was an original, almost bizarre quality about the general's face. He was a tall man past middle age, for his hair was a vivid gray/white. His eyes were purple and very bright. He had a round nose, a spare, dark face-the face of a man used to giving orders, the face of an aristocrat. He also had a bitchen pink hipster scarf. Turning to the man in uniform, the general made a sign. The giant put away his pistol, saluted, and withdrew.

"Eduard is an incredibly strong fellow," remarked the general, "but he has the misfortune to be deaf and dumb. A simple fellow, da, but, I'm afraid, like all his race, a bit of a savage."

"Is he Russian?"

"He is Estonian," said the general, and his smile showed red lips and pointed teeth. "I am however."

"Come, da?" he said, "we shouldn't be chatting here. We can talk later. Now you want clothes, food, and rest. You shall have them. This is a most-restful spot."

Eduard had reappeared, and the general spoke to him with lips that moved but gave forth no sound.

"Follow Eduard, Mr. Jones, da?" said the general. "I was about to have my dinner when you came. I'll wait for you. You'll find that my clothes will fit you, I think."

Jones followed Eduard to a bedroom that was beam-ceilinged with a canopied bed big enough for six men (wonder what he does if it holds that many people). Eduard laid out a suit on the bed, Jones changed into it, not before noticing that it came from a London tailor who ordinarily cut and sewed for none below the rank of duke.

Eduard led Jones to a dining room that a he couldn't help but admire. There was a medieval look to it; it suggested a baronial hall of feudal times with its oaken panels, its high ceiling, its vast refectory tables where twoscore men could sit down to eat. About the hall were mounted heads of many animals-lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; larger or more perfect specimens Jones had never seen. At the great table the general was sitting, (forever) alone.

"You'll have some Vodka, Mr. Jones, da?" he suggested. The Vodka was really good, like really, really, good and, Jones noted, the table apointments were of the finest-the linen, the crystal, the silver, the china. _Oh you fancy huh?_ Alfred mused to himself.

They were eating _borsch_, the rich, red soup with whipped cream so dear to Russian palates. Half apologetically General Braginski said, "We do our best to preserve the amenities of civilization here. Please forgive any lapses, da? We are well off the beaten track, ah? Do you think the drink has suffered from its long ocean trip?"

"Not in the least," declared Jones. He was finding the general a most thoughtful and bitchen host, a true cosmopolite. But there was one small trait of the general's that made Jones uncomfortable. Whenever he looked up from his plate he found the general studying him, appraising him narrowly like a creeper.

"Perhaps," said General Braginski, "you were surprised that I recognized your name da? You see, I read all books on hunting published in English, French, and Russian. I have but one passion in my life, Mr. Jones, and it is the hunt."

"You have some wonderful heads here," said Jones as he ate a particularly well-cooked _filet mignon (not as good as a burger though)_. " That Cape buffalo is the most humongasaur I ever saw."

"Oh, that fellow. Yes, he was a monster."

"Did he charge you?"

"Bitch slapped me against a tree," said the general. "Fractured my skull. But I got the brute, aha."

"I've always thought," said Jones, in-between chews, "that the Cape buffalo is the most dangerous of all big game."

The general did not reply right away; he was smiling his curious child-like smile. Then he said slowly, "нет. You are wrong, sir. The Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous big game." He sipped his Vodka. "Here in my preserve on this island," he said in the same slow tone, "I hunt more dangerous game."

Jones expressed his surprise. "Is there big game on this island?"

The general nodded. "The biggest."

"Really?" Jones asked, paying attention closely.

"Oh, it isn't here naturally, da. I have to stock the island."

"What have you imported, general?" Jones asked. "Tigers? That would be awesome, broski!"

The general smiled in a child-like way. " нет," he said. "Hunting tigers ceased to interest me some years ago. I exhausted their possibilities, da. No thrill left in tigers, no real danger. I live for danger, Mr. Jones."(cue CSI Miami theme)

The general took from his pocket a gold cigarette case and offered his guest a long black cigarette with a silver tip; it was perfumed and gave off a smell like incense, Jones took it to be polite.

"We will have some capital hunting, you and I, da?" said the general. "I shall be most glad to have your society."

"But what game-" began Jones, on the edge of his seat.

"I'll tell you," said the general. "You will be amused, I know. I think I may say, in all modesty, that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of водка?"

"Thank you, general."

General Braginski poured him and his guest another glass of the Russian drink. "God makes some men poets. Some he makes kings, some beggars. Me he made a hunter da? My hand was made for the trigger, my father said. He was a very rich man with a quarter of a million acres in the Crimea, and he was an ardent sportsman. When I was only five years old he gave me a little gun, specially made in Moscow for me, to shoot sparrows with. When I shot some of his prize turkeys with it ('cause yolo!), he did not punish me; he complimented me on my marksmanship. I killed my first bear in the Caucasus when I was ten (he went by the name of Yogi, but that's not important). My whole life has been one prolonged hunt. I went into the army-it was expected of noblemen's sons-and for a time commanded a division of Russian cavalry, but my real interest was always the hunt. I have hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have killed." The general boasted his pride, and puffed his cigarette.

"After the debacle in Russia I left the country, for it was imprudent for an officer of the Czar to stay there. Many noble Russians lost everything. I, luckily, had invested heavily in American securities, so I shall never have to open a tearoom in Monte Carlo or drive a taxi in Paris. Naturally, I continued to hunt-grizzliest in your Rockies, crocodiles in the Ganges, rhinoceroses in East Africa. It was in Africa that the Cape buffalo hit me and laid me up for six months. As soon as I recovered I started for the Amazon to hunt jaguars, for I had heard they were unusually cunning.

They weren't, they were actually quiet the derp." The Russian sighed.

"They were no match at all for a hunter with his wits about him, and a high-powered rifle LOL. I was bitterly disappointed. I was lying in my tent with a splitting headache one night when a terrible thought pushed its way into my mind. Hunting was beginning to bore me! And hunting, remember, had been my life, and like, I have heard that in America businessmen often go to pieces when they give up the business that has been their life."

"Hell to the yeah," said Jones.

The general smiled. "I had no wish to go to pieces," he said. "I must do something. Now, mine is an analytical mind, Mr. Jones, da? Doubtless that is why I enjoy the problems of the chase."

"No doubt, General Braginski."

"So," continued the general, "I asked myself why the hunt no longer fascinated me. You are much younger than I am, Mr. jones, and have not hunted as much, but you perhaps can guess the answer."

"What was it?"

"Simply this: hunting had ceased to be what you call `a sporting proposition.' It had become too easy. I always got my quarry. Always. There is no greater bore than perfection."

The general lit a fresh cigarette. And whipped his hair in a _'bitch I'm flawless'_ way.

"No animal had a chance with me any more. That is no boast; it is a mathematical certainty."

_Bitch I get it!_

"The animal had nothing but his legs and his instinct. Instinct is no match for reason. When I thought of this it was a tragic moment for me, da."

Jones leaned across the table, absorbed in what his host was saying.

"It came to me as an inspiration what I must do," the general went on.

"And that was?" Jones was practically pissing his pants in anticipation.

The general smiled the quiet smile of one who has faced an obstacle and surmounted it with success. "I had to invent a new animal to hunt," he said.

"LOL wut? A new animal? You're joking."

"Not at all, comrade" said the general. "I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So I bought this island built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island is perfect for my purposes-there are jungles with a maze of traits in them, hills, swamps-"

"But the animal, General Braginski?" Jones practically pleaded.

"Oh," said the general, "it supplies me with the most exciting hunting in the world da? No other hunting compares with it for an instant. Every day I hunt, and I never grow bored now, for I have a **quarry** with which I can match my wits."

Jones' bewilderment showed in his face. It was like this: :O.

"I wanted the ideal animal to hunt," explained the general. "So I said, `What are the attributes of an ideal quarry?' And the answer was, of course, `It must have courage, cunning, and, above all, it must be able to reason."'

"But no animal can reason," objected Jones.

"My dear fellow," said the general, smiling in that creepy childlike manner, "there is one that can."

"But you can't mean-" gasped Jones, like he did when he watched the scary car ride video.

"And why not, da?"

"I can't believe you are serious, General Braginski. This is a grisly joke."

"Why should I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting."

"Hunting? Great Googalie Moogalie, General Braginski, what you speak of is murder."

The general laughed with entire good nature, like the creepy mother fluffer he was. He regarded Jones quizzically. "I refuse to believe that so modern and civilized a young man as you seem to be harbors romantic ideas about the value of human life da? Surely your experiences in the war-"

"Did not make me condone cold-blooded murder," finished Jones sternly, much unlike his usual his manners.

Laughter shook the general like a tickle me Elmo. "How extraordinarily **droll** you are!" he said. "One does not expect nowadays to find a young man of the educated class, even in America, home of stupid people, with such a naive, and, if I may say so, mid-Victorian point of view. It's like finding a snuffbox in a limousine. Ah, well, doubtless you had Puritan ancestors. So many Americans appear to have had. I'll wager you'll forget your notions when you go hunting with me da? You've a genuine new thrill in store for you, Mr. Jones."

"Thank you, I'm a hunter, not a murderer." Jones sniffed.

"Ahaha," chuckled the general, quite unruffled, "again that unpleasant word. But I think I can show you that your scruples are quite ill founded."

"Yes?"

"Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the strong pleasure- interpret that as you wish. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships-lassars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels-a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them."

"But they are men," said Jones angrily.

"Precisely," said the general. "That is why I use them. It gives me pleasure, da? They can reason, after a fashion. So they are dangerous."

"But where do you get them?"

The general's left eyelid fluttered down in a wink. "This island is called Ship Trap," he answered. "Sometimes an angry god of the high seas sends them to me. Sometimes, when Providence is not so kind, I help Providence a bit. Come to the window with me."

Jones went to the window and looked out toward the sea.

"Watch! Out there!" exclaimed the general, pointing into the night. Jones' eyes saw only blackness, and then, as the general pressed a button, far out to sea Jones saw the flash of lights.

The general chuckled. "They indicate a channel," he said, "where there's none; giant rocks with razor edges crouch like a sea monster Omnoming with his mouth open. They can crush a ship as easily as I crush this nut." He dropped a walnut on the hardwood floor and brought his heel grinding down on it. "Oh, yes," he said, casually, as if in answer to a question, "I have electricity. We try to be civilized here."

"Civilized? And you shoot down men?"

Ouch. That burned. A trace of anger was in the general's purple eyes, but it was there for but a second; and he said, in his most pleasant manner, "Da, what a righteous young man you are! I assure you I do not do the thing you suggest. That would be barbarous. I treat these visitors with every consideration. They get plenty of good food and exercise. They get into splendid physical condition. You shall see for yourself tomorrow."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll visit my training school, ah," smiled the general. "It's in the cellar. I have about a dozen pupils down there now. They're from the Spanish bark _San Lucar_ that had the bad luck to go on the rocks out there, heehee. A very inferior lot, I regret to say. Poor specimens and more accustomed to the deck than to the jungle." He raised his hand, and, Eduard who served as waiter, brought thick Turkish coffee. Jones, with an effort, held his tongue in check; cause he totes wanted to curse this dude out.

"It's a game, you see," pursued the general blandly. "I suggest to one of them that we go hunting. I give him a supply of food and an excellent hunting knife. I give him three hours' start. I am to follow, armed only with a pistol of the smallest caliber and range. If my quarry eludes me for three whole days, he wins the game. If I find him "-the general smiled slowly-" he loses."

"Suppose he refuses to be hunted?"

"Oh," said the general, "I give him his option, of course. He need not play that game if he doesn't wish to. If he does not wish to hunt, I turn him over to Eduard. Eduard once had the honor of serving as official knouter to the Great White Czar, and he has his own ideas of sport. Invariably, Mr. Jones, invariably they choose the hunt."

"And if they win?"

The smile on the general's face widened. "To date I have not lost," he said. Then he added, quickly: "I don't wish you to think me a braggart, Mr. Jones."

_Too late._

"Many of them afford only the most elementary sort of problem. Occasionally I strike a tartar. One almost did win. I eventually had to use the dogs."

"The dogs?"

"This way, da? I'll show you."

The general led Jones to a window. The lights from the window made a odd shape in the court yard below, Jones could see a dozen shapes moving as he looked closely he could see their eyes staring greenly at them.

"Their pretty bad ass," observed the general. "They are let out at seven every night. If anyone should try to get into my house-or out of it-something extremely regrettable would occur to him." He hummed a snatch of a song from High School Musical 2.

"And now," said the general, "I want to show you my new collection of heads. Will you come with me to the library?" He looked at Jones with a creepy glare.

"Uh, yeah, General Braginski? If you don't mind I'd like to hit the hay." Jones commented before they moved any further.

"Ah, da?" the general inquired solicitously. "Well, I suppose that's only natural, after your long swim. You need a good, restful night's sleep. Tomorrow you'll feel like a new man, I'll bet. Then we'll hunt, da? I've one rather promising prospect-" Jones was hurrying from the room faster than if their was free ice cream!

"Sorry you can't go with me tonight," called the general. "I expect rather fair sport-a big, strong, black. He looks resourceful-Well, good night, Mr. Rainsford; I hope you have a good night's rest."

With a comfy bed, pajamas softer than a mother effer, and being as tired as hell, you'd think sleep would come easily, but, he was kinda in a house with a man who hunted men for shits and giggles- try going to sleep with that in your mind! He just laid there, eyes open. He heard a noise and went to open the door only to find it locked. He went to the window and looked out.

His room was high up in one of the towers. The lights from the building were out now, and it was dark and silent; but he could dimly see the courtyard through a bit of the he could see shadows of the hounds, the noiseless forms heard him at the window and looked up expectantly. Creeped out, Jones tried to go to sleep. He had only been dozing for a short while when morning came, with it he was awoken by a noise off in the jungle, the faint report of a pistol.

oFTbrakeoFT

General Braginski did not appear till the evening omnoms. He was dressed faultlessly in the tweeds of a country squire, kinda like Mr. Bean, but still wearing his hipster scarf. He was concerned about Jones' well being, cause Jones did storm out last night like a teenage girl.

"As for me," sighed the general, "I do not feel so well. I am worried, Mr. Jones, da? Last night I detected traces of my old complaint."

To Jones' bad poker face the general said, "Ennui. Boredom."

Then, taking a second helping of whatever Russian crap he was eating, the general explained: "The hunting was not good last night. Ah, the dummy lost his head. He made a straight trail that offered no problems at all. That's the trouble with these sailors; they have dull brains to begin with, and they do not know how to get about in the woods. They do excessively stupid and obvious things. It's most annoying, da. Will you have another glass, Mr. Jones?"

"General," said Jones firmly, "I wish to leave this island at once."

The general raised his eyebrows; he seemed hurt. Aww sadface. "But, comrade," the general protested, "you've only just come. You've had no hunting-"

"I wish to go today," said Jones, he was starting to get pissy. He saw the dead purple eyes of the general on him, studying him (like you should probably be doing right now, but its coo, just keep reading). General Braginski's face suddenly brightened as a kid does when he thinks of something clever.

He filled Jones' glass with some old ass _Chablis_ from a dusty bottle.

"Tonight~, we are young~ " sang the general, "JK, but yeah, tonight, we will hunt-you and I."

Jones shook his head. "No, general," he said. "I will not hunt."

The general shrugged his shoulders casually. "As you wish, comrade," he said. "The choice rests entirely with you. But may I not say that you will find my idea of sport more diverting than Eduard's?"

He nodded toward the corner to where the weirdo stood scowling, his arms crossed on his chest.

"You don't mean-" cried Jones, as loud as a JB fangirl.

"Oh, you~," said the general, "have I not told you I always mean what I say about hunting? This is really an inspiration. I drink to a foeman worthy of my steel-at last." The general raised his glass, but Jones sat staring at him, with a WTF face.

"You'll find this game worth playing," the general said enthusiastically." Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess! And the stake is not without value, da?"

"And if I win-" began Jones thickly.

"I'll cheerfully acknowledge myself defeat if I do not find you by midnight of the third day," said General Braginski. "My ship will place you on the mainland near a town." The general read what Jones was thinking.

"Oh, you can trust me," said the Russian. "I will give you my word as a gentleman and a sportsman. Of course you, in turn, must agree to say nothing of your visit here, da?"

"LOL wut?! I'll agree to nothing of the kind," said Jones.

"Oh," said the general, "in that case (kolkolkol)-But why discuss that now? Three days hence we can discuss it over a bottle of _Veuve Cliquot_, unless-" He smiled airly.

" Well anyway," the general began, turning his voice very business like, "Eduard, will supply you with hunting clothes, food, a knife. I suggest you wear moccasins, da; they leave a poorer trail. I suggest, too, that you avoid the big swamp in the southeast corner of the island. We call it Death Swamp, cause we're uncreative. There's quicksand there. One foolish man tried it. The sad part of it was that Blakie followed him. You can imagine my feelings, Mr. Jones. I loved Blackie; he was the finest hound in my pack. Well, I must beg you to excuse me now. I always' take a siesta after lunch. You'll hardly have time for a nap, ha. You'll want to start, da? I shall not follow till dusk. Hunting at night is so much more exciting than by day, don't you think? Do svidaniya, Mr. Jones, Do svidaniya." The general placed his hands on his scarf delicately, and nodded slightly before turning and leaving.

From another door came Eduard. Under one arm he carried khaki hunting clothes, a bag of food, a leather sheath containing a long-bladed hunting knife; his right hand rested on a cocked revolver thrust in the blue, black, and white sash about his waist.

oFTbrakeoFT

Jones trudged through the vegetation for 127 minutes, "I'm screwed, I'm screwed." He thought to himself. But he knew he needed to remain calm if he was going to come out of this shit-hole alive.

He was not really thinking straight when the gates of the building closed behind him. He knew that he should get as far as he could from that Russian freak. Going straight would be a stupid move; he would run into the sea. The island was a cage, which his coarse of actions that Jones would need to stay in.

"I need to give this commie bastard a trail to follow!" Jones whispered, his hero instincts coming in. He made his way around the jungle intricately, doubling over in some spots, and putting in the code for MissingNo., to throw him off. Trying to blunder around in the dark would be stupid, Braginski would have the upper hand, and that's not cool yo! With that in mind, Jones made his way to a tall tree careful to mask his path. He made his way to the crotch of the tree (LOL), moved out among one of the limbs and hid himself in the leaves. Rest brought him visions of aliens, some newfound confidence, and some cocky sense of security. That crazy man wont find me, he thought to himself, even though he was super **zealous**, no one could find me 'cept the devil himself, but then again maybe this broski was the devil-.

He didn't sleep as the night creeped on, but the eerie silence continued. In the early morning, while the sun was still coming up, the cry of a startled bird brought Jones' attention in that direction. Something was coming through the bush, coming slowly, carefully, coming by the same complex way Jones had come. He flattened himself down on the limb and, through a screen of leaves almost as thick as pudding (good pudding, not that watery crap), he watched. . . .

That which was approaching was a man.

It was General Braginski. He was walking with confidence and the upmost concentration on the ground ahead of him. He stopped close to the bottom of the tree. Jones' first instinct was to jump that bitch, but stopped himself when he saw what was in the Russians hands-a small automatic pistol.

The hunter shook his head several times, as if he just read one of those effed up yahoo questions, y'know the ones that just make you go "dafuq did I just read?". Then he straightened up and took from his case one of his cancer sticks; its strong incenselike smoke floated up to Jones' nose.

Jones held his breath; this was more anticipation then waiting for _The Exorcism of Emily Rose _to come out. Jones froze as the hunters' eyes rose inch by inch up the tree stopping right before reaching the limb that Jones resided. Braginski smiled that creepy child like smile. Very deliberately he blew a smoke ring into the air; then he turned his back on the tree and walked carelessly away, back along the trail he had come. The sound of his hunting boots growing fainter and fainter.

Jones let out all the air he was holding. The first thought that came to his mind scared him; the general could follow a trail at night, and a difficult one at that. His hunting skills were so **uncanny** that it was a mere miracle that the **quarry** that was him had eluded the Russian man.

Jones' second thought was even more terrible, and almost had him have an accident on himself. It sent a shudder of intense horror through his whole being (even more intense then those Japanese horror movies). Why had the general smiled? Why had he turned back?

Jones didn't wanna believe it was true, but the answer was as evident as the fact that 'Ian is the master of comebacks.'

The general was playing with him! The general was saving him for another day's sport! The Russian was the cat; he was the mouse. Then it was that Jones knew the full meaning of terror.

"Oh, no, not I, I will survive!

Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive!"

Jones slid off of the tree and set off towards the woods, straining to keep calm. Three hundred yards from his hiding place he stopped where a huge dead tree leaned precariously on a smaller, living one. Throwing off his sack of food like a baws, Jones took his knife and began to work like crazy yo.

Jones finished his job with a glance of pride before hiding behind a fallen log a hundred feet away. He didn't have to wait long. That n00b was coming back…

Following the trail with mad skill came General Braginski. Nothing escaped his searching purple eyes, not a single blade of grass, or the tiniest indent in the ground. He was like soooo intent on his stalking that he totes was on the thing that Jones made before he like noticed it, for realizes. His foot touched the protruding branch that was the trigger. Even as he touched it, the general sensed his danger and leaped back like someone who just stepped on a leggo. But he was not quite quick enough, broski; the dead tree, placed precariously to rest on the cut living one, crashed down and struck the general a with a blow on the shoulder as it fell; but for his alertness, he must have been smashed beneath it. He staggered, but he did not fall; nor did he drop his revolver. He stood there, rubbing his injured shoulder, and Jones, with fear uncharacteristically flowing through, heard the general's childlike laughter loudly through the jungle.

"Jones," called the general, "if you are within sound of my voice, as I suppose you are, let me congratulate you, da? Not many men know how to make a Malay mancatcher. Luckily for me I, too, have hunted in Malacca, ah~. You are proving interesting, Mr. Jones. I am going now to get patched up. But I shall be back, da? I shall be back. Ahaha." He turned and left clutching his wound, and smiling that creepy smile.

With that ass hat gone, Jones took on a desperate run a hopeless flight that had him going for hours. Dusk came, then darkness, and still he ran like hell. The ground was growing softer, the greenery ranker, and the insects were biting like no tomorrow.

He took another step forward and his foot started to sink into the ooze. He tried to get it back but the ground pulled him like a mother fluffer. With a violent effort, he tore his feet loose. _Shit! _He knew where he was now, Death Swamp.

His hands were tight closed as if his nerve were something tangible that someone in the darkness was trying to tear from his grip. The softness of the earth had given him an idea. He stepped back from the quicksand a dozen feet or so and, like diglett, he began to claw at the ground.

Jones had dug himself in in France when a second's delay meant death. But that was nothing compared to his digging now, it was like frolicking in the flowers compared to the for seriousness of this. The pit grew deeper; when it was above his shoulders, he climbed out and from some hard saplings cut stakes and sharpened them to a supah fine point. These stakes he planted in the bottom of the pit with the points sticking up. Quickly he wove a rough carpet of weeds and branches and with it he covered the mouth of the pit. Then, aching with his hard work and dripping with sweat, he crouched behind the stump of a lightning-charred tree.

He heard the general coming from the soft sounds of his walking movements, and the wind carrying the smell of his cigarette. To Jones, it seemed that Braginski was walking quiet fast and not in his usual careful walk. Crouching there, Jones could not see the general, nor could he see the pit. He lived a year in a minute. Then he felt the need to cry aloud with joy, and break dance for he heard the sharp crackle of the breaking branches as the cover of the pit gave way; he heard the sharp scream of pain as the pointed stakes found their mark. He leaped up from his place of concealment. Then he cowered back. Three feet from the pit a man was standing, with an electric torch in his hand. _God damn it._

"You've done well, Jones," the voice of the general called. "Da, your Burmese tiger pit has claimed one of my best dogs; Aster. Again you score. I think, Mr. Jones, I'll see what you can do against my whole pack. I'm going home for a rest now. Thank you for a most amusing evening. Heehe~"

In the morning, Jones was awakened by a sound that was enough to teach him a thing or to about fear- the sound of a pack of baying hounds.

Jones knew he could do one of two things. He could stay where he was and wait. That was suicide, so no likey that idea. He could flee. That was just buying time. For a moment he stood there, thinking. A badass idea came to him, and, tightening his belt, he headed away from the swamp.

He could hear the dogs coming closer and closer, and closer and closer and closer…. So they was like supah close. Jones climbed a tree on a ridge. Down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, he could see the bush moving. He strained his eyes and could see that unmistakable hipster scarf on Braginski, and next to him was Eduard being pulled by what could be assumed the pack of dogs.

They were close and they would be on him (giggity) soon. Frantically, he tried to think. He thought of a native trick he had learned in Uganda. He slid down the tree. He caught hold of a springy young sapling and to it he fastened his hunting knife, with the blade pointing down the trail; with a bit of wild grapevine he tied back the sapling. Then he ran like a mother ducker. The hounds raised their voices as they hit the fresh scent. Jones knew now how an animal at bay feels (well isn't it ironic~).

Jones stopped to catch his breath and noticed the dogs had stopped to, along with his heart; they must have made it to the knife.

Excitedly he climbed his way up a nearby tree. The hunters had stopped. But Jones' hope when he climbed died, because he saw that General Braginski was still on his feet. But Eduard was not. The knife, driven by the recoil of the springing tree, had not wholly failed.

Jones hardly fell to the ground when the hounds were on his ass again.

"Crap-crap-crap!" he panted as he ran along. As he ran he approached a blue gap, the dogs were still on him. Drawing nearer he was able to recognize the gap as the sea. Across a cove he could see the gray stone of the chateau. Twenty feet below him the sea tossed and turned. Jones hesitated. He heard the hounds. Then he leaped far out into the sea yelling "YOLOOOOOOO" (but no one would be able to hear over the sounds of the water). . .

When the Russian and his dogs came to the edge by the sea they stooped. He stood there for a couple minutes just looking into the water. "Oh well." He said while shrugging. Then be sat down, took a drink of vodka from a silver flask, lit a cigarette, and hummed a bit from_ Call Me Maybe_.

General Braginski ate decently that evening. With it he had a bottle and a half of _Vodka_. Two slight annoyances kept him from perfect enjoyment. One was the thought that it would be difficult to replace Eduard (I mean, it's not like he cared he died or anything); the other was that his quarry had escaped him; of course, the American hadn't played the game- thought the general. In his library he read, to soothe himself, from the works of Dr. Suess and J.K. Rowling. At ten he went up to his bedroom. He was ridiculously tired after a helluva night, he said to himself, as he locked himself in for beddy bye. There was little moonlight, so, before turning on his light, he went to the window and looked down at the courtyard. He could see the great hounds, and he called, "Better luck another time, da?" to them. Then he switched on the light.

A man, who had been hiding in the curtains of the bed, was standing there.

"Jones!" screamed the general. "God damn it! How the hell did you get in here?!"

"Swam, dipshit" said Jones. "I found it quicker than walking through the jungle, ya know?"

The general sucked in his breath and smiled his childish smile. "I congratulate you," he said. "You have won the game."

Jones did not smile. "I am still a beast at bay," he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Get ready, General Braginski."

The general made one of his deepest bows. "I see," he said. "Great fun! One of us is to furnish a repast for the hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent bed. On guard, Jones." . . .

He had never slept in a better bed, Jones decided.


End file.
